Some poems present themselves as cliffs that need to be climbed. Others are so defensive that when you approach their enclosure you half expect to be met by a snarling dog at the gate. Still others want to smother you with their sticky charms.

My mother never forgave my father

The first task of the poet is to create the person who will write the poems.

Certainly the modern poets I cherish most are disturbing spirits; they do not come to coo.

Darling, do you remember the man you married? Touch me, remind me who I am.

The poem comes in the form of a blessing, like rapture breaking on the mind.

One critic wrote . . . that my poems sounded as though they had been translated from the Hungarian. I don't know why, but somehow that made me feel quite lighthearted.